Blind Descent-pigeion 6 by Nevada Barr Page A

warmth of Oscar's thighs. Hooking her fingers behind his knees, she dragged herself toward them.
      "Watch your light!"
      She stopped just before she rammed his groin with the apparatus. "Caving is not conducive to human dignity," she grumbled.
      "Nope. Just to long and meaningful relationships," Oscar said, and Anna laughed to let him know she appreciated the effort. "You're home free. Take off your helmet and push it ahead. Keep going till you come out in a place that looks like it's made of cheese. Wait for us there."
      Inching along like a worm, Anna oozed between Oscar's legs. The passage opened enough so she could roll over onto her stomach, then closed down again so tight she had to turn her head sideways to make any progress. The bees whined, the noise threatening sanity.
      She scratched ahead with her toes. Tugged forward with fingertips and stomach muscles. Humped along like a caterpillar, ignoring the rake of stone knives down her shoulder blades. Each foot achieved was a goal to be celebrated. When she thought she couldn't take any more she was granted a reprieve. The Wormhole bored out of the wall into a large room, and she spewed gratefully to the floor.
      Oscar Iverson's choice of metaphor had been apt. As if she had entered a mouse's dream of paradise, Anna had arrived into what looked like a giant piece of Swiss cheese. Uniformly pale round passages twisted away in all directions. Without moving she could count twelve openings, some as small as the Wormhole, some big enough to walk through upright. The place was a three-dimensional maze, confusing and disorienting. But it was bigger than a bread box, and Anna contented herself with that.
      In less than twenty minutes the men joined her. "Eight thirty," Iverson said, looking at his watch. "We're way slow. Everybody okay to pick up the pace?" Too tired to speak, Anna nodded. Packs were redistributed, and they resumed travel. Again Oscar set a brutal pace. Anna worked until there was no room for thought, for observation, no room even for fear. Holden's promise held true; there were no more creepy crawly bits and only a handful of places they had to chimney or stoop-walk. The earth's interior was so riddled with airspace it was a wonder great tracts of the Trans-Pecos didn't collapse periodically.
      Wonders flashed past in a sweating stream, caught in light fragments like views from a rain-streaked train window. Falls of liquid stone the color of old brass emptied into a lake so clear that the bottom, thirty feet down, looked no farther away than Anna's toes. There was no way around it, and the three of them stripped naked lest their filthy clothes sully water kept pure for millennia. Clothing was put in zipper-lock plastic bags to keep it dry. For the climb back out of the water filled room, they donned rubber beach shoes so they would not scar the perfect surface of the flowstone, tumbling in a waterless fall frozen in place for all time.
      After the lake, they dressed and laced on their boots for Razor Blade Run. Aragonite bushes, white and as freeform as coral, bloomed in the utter stillness. The slightest touch by a passing caver was enough to snap the delicate crystals. Tunnels of these fragile, razor-sharp feathers were eased through with aching slowness and a constant mantra of "be careful. Look out. Big one. Take it slow . . ." from Iverson.
      "Watch those big feet. Laymon says Oscar walks like an elephant on a pogo stick . . ." from Holden.
      Anna's legs carried her. Hands grasped rope. She poured water down her throat. Miracles passed by.
      By the time they arrived in Tinker's Hell, where Frieda lay, it was after two in the morning. Anna hadn't slowed the cavers down. She hadn't gotten hurt. And she hadn't gone nuts. All in all, a successful day.
      Tinker's, where the survey team was camped, was an immense chamber; Shea Stadium could have been tucked inside with room left over for a taxi stand. Anna, Holden, and Iverson entered